Navigating Deep Waters
by KarasBroken
Summary: Horatio slowly comes to terms with his confused feelings for Kennedy, plagued by visions of de Sade, while Archie is plagued with a different devil.
1. Navigating Deep Waters, Ch 1

It was the end of the longest week Horatio could remember, but it did not matter. It was Sunday dinner, and Archie had just slid in beside him, off duty together until at least the second dog watch. Under the cover of the table, he took the other boy's hand, and in the little code they had devised, reassured himself that Kennedy was well. The first part of the meal was jovial, for Simpson had been kept on deck attending to some trouble with the division. Horatio forgot to be cautious, sitting thigh to thigh with Archie, blushing and forcing a laugh as the imp told the table about his latest landsmen error: diligently obeying a rating's summons to report to Lieutenant Chadd for capstan drill. Even that dour officer had guffawed in his face when he explained his errand, before dismissing him. He had needed Archie to explain the joke. Still, as harassments went it was harmless enough, and Horatio was just glad he had not actually had to go through with the exercise.

Conversation had moved on to other topics, and he was heads together with Archie, listening with a skeptical ear to a description of the Calcutta docks, when on the other side, Cleveland shoved him over so abruptly, he almost knocked Kennedy off the end of the bench. Only a quick arm about Archie saved the boy being dumped to the floor. Horatio opened his mouth to protest Cleveland's rudeness, but a sharp elbow in his side remind him to let go Kennedy and the offense at the same time. Glancing up, he saw Simpson settling into a vacated space with that knowing sneer that never meant well. He was unsurprised when Archie fell silent, hardly picking at the food. After several long minutes, a surreptitious under-table conference agreed on the lightroom as their meeting place. Horatio soon excused himself, claiming his books and slate from his sea chest, and headed off to take advantage of the free afternoon to study.

It was longer than he liked before Kennedy joined him in the tiny, almost airless cubby deep in the hold. Horatio had been nervous to come here at first, acutely aware of the countless casks and combustible dust just the other side of the thick glass window. But few ventured down to the magazine outside of weekly gun practice, and the light room was one of the only places below decks bright enough to read in without strain.

He had come prepared to wait, and was lying on his stomach, scratching out notes in his log book, when Kennedy slipped down the ladder, barefooted, and with a pack of supplies slung over one shoulder. The mid greeted him with one of his favorite smiles, and joined Horatio on the floor, laying sideways, propped up on one elbow where Archie could observe what he was writing.

The room was close, and Horatio found the other boy's proximity damnably distracting, from the occasional brush of leg to the warm smell of sweat after Archie stripped off coat and vest to make a pillow. When Kennedy finally leaned low over his shoulder, pointing out an elementary mistake in his course calculation, it was all Horatio could do not to snap the pen in frustration. Instead he focused for several seconds on that offending digit, on one of the faint dark marks he had so often wondered about, but been afraid to question, until he could ignore the irritation of hot meaty breath tickling his cheek, and respond with reasonable good humor. "Yes, thank you, Mr. Kennedy, I see my error." He carefully scratched it out and corrected the math.

Horatio continued with his figures, now fighting the urge to slap away Kennedy's hands. They had decided to play with his queue, pulling free the ribbon and straightening his haphazard curls. In desperation, he broached a subject he had been afraid to touch for days. "You might be more attentive to your navigation problems as well, Kennedy. You are so close to mastering them, I am sure, and I would... I would be happy to assist you if you wanted further instruction. I am afraid Mr. Chadd is not the most patient of tutors."

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Hornblower." His stratagem worked, and the offending hand left his hair. Archie rifled a small sack, and flipping through a few pages, slid the book under Horatio's nose. The other boy pulled away completely then, leaning against the wall to watch him. Horatio cursed himself for being as aware of the distance now, as he had been of the contact previously, while he tried to decipher the text Kennedy had put before him.

It was another log book, half-destroyed by immersion, and many of the entries re-inked over their original blurry shadows. The page before him contained a rather complex heading correction, made while navigating the straight between Sri Lanka and the coast of India. Horatio checked the calculations on his slate, concluding after a couple minutes that they were entirely correct. He looked up then to catch Kennedy's rueful smile. "You have been giving the wrong answers on purpose," he realized.

"Yes, of course. I'm not as fast as you, perhaps, but I am not a dunce."

"I never said-"

"You should follow my example." That shut Horatio up. He did not want to have this argument again, did not want to argue with Archie at all, to waste any minute of this precious afternoon. So he ignored the accusation, and covered Kennedy's hand with his own in a gentle apology. Archie moved close again, sitting tailor's style now, beside him. The boy wrapped teasing fingers through his hair again, petting and combing so that Horatio had to close his eyes to hide the aggravation of it. Kennedy's voice was as coaxing as the caress. "We might leave off work for an hour or two. It is Sunday, after all, Horatio."

He peaked at the other boy warily. "You don't mean to read me the bible, do you?" Archie had surprised him more than once with some odd expression of faith, and he almost suspected the other mid was a Catholic, but that was another matter he was afraid to ask about.

Kennedy only laughed. "I had a different sort of prayer in mind." Horatio thought that sounded ominous, and rolled over, away from Archie's unsettling touch.

"More of your Blake?"

"If you like." Kennedy carefully capped Horatio's inkpot, shut the log book he had been working on, and collected slate and pencil, setting all these instruments aside. "I brought it, but also a few other books, Shakespeare, Sheridan, this lurid story about Scotland too. Nothing serious, nothing realistic. I wanted to spend the dogwatch completely lost in the fantastical." Horatio had noticed that Archie had an enviably large library, though mostly composed of novels and other mindless distractions. The mid seemed to be emptying half that collection out onto the floorboards, and plucked the top book off the stack, before carelessly shoving the rest at Horatio. "Take your pick."

With seemingly every expectation of being obeyed, Archie flopped flat to the floor, choosing Horatio's stomach as bolster, and squirmed until satisfied with this new-found cushion. Then the maddening boy opened a slim volume of fiction that Horatio had not heard of before, and proceeded to utterly ignore him. Trapped under Kennedy's surprisingly weighty head, he was forced to shuffle through the books from his awkwardly prone position, and so chose one almost at random. It was in French, and he thought he might at least exercise his memory of the language, if not improve it. Stealing Kennedy's coat, since the boy had stolen his body for a headrest, Horatio made himself as comfortable as possible and began laboriously to read.

They passed almost an hour, as best he could judge, the whole time Horatio growing in discomfort, but unwilling to stir Kennedy, who was smiling, and even laughing, over the chosen book with a lightness he could not remember since before Simpson's return to the ship. He was far less satisfied with his own selection. It seemed to be the story of an orphaned girl, who finding herself in a convent, was tricked into selling herself for sordid practices. As soon as he understood the intention of the book, Horatio meant to put it down, but he knew there would be questions from his pernicious reading partner, and he didn't know how he would answer then, so his eyes continued to drag down the pages.

His dancing master's French was not sufficient to the subject matter, sparing him too vivid a description of the narrative. Until he came across a curious phrase, that some of her customers were 'content with the rose' while others wished 'to bring to full flower the bud that grows adjacently'. The meaning was so obscure, Horatio couldn't help but dwell on it, trying to imagine what was intended. His groin gave a sudden throb just as he realized that 'flower bud' was some repulsive metaphor for the girl's arsehole. The image of a man placing his prick there was nauseating. Horatio had heard of buggery, of course. His school mates, knowing he was to join the Navy, had reveled in warning him about a fate they liked to pretend was inevitable. But whatever desperate sailors might get up to when many months at sea, it was a far fouler thing to take a woman so. Yet despite the disgust he knew he should have, Horatio could not erase the image from his mind, now that the filthy book had put it there, and his own prick gave a second sharp kick, prompting him to drop the book, sitting abruptly upright.

Kennedy was dislodged from his stomach and frowned at him in irritation at the displacement. Before Horatio could be queried, however, they both heard a noise from above, and in a few moments, Clayton's hoarse whisper echoed down the ladder. "Kennedy? He is looking for you, and it will go worse the longer you keep him waiting. You're both to go ashore, to support the press." Clayton swung down the hatch, smiling despite the terse summons at the picturesque literary feast spread out below.

"Press gangs on a Sunday?" Kennedy blinked in surprise. "Poor souls." The boy stood hastily, looked about with a scowl, and shrugged with resignation. "I'll be right behind you, Clayton. Horatio, you'll get my books back for me?"

"Of course." He started to gather them all together into a neat pile. "Shore leave of a sort, Archie, enjoy it, even if you do have to share it with Simpson."

It was the wrong thing to say, Horatio could tell by the smile Kennedy returned him, the one that said clearer than any words what a hopeless idiot he was. Archie didn't even bother to reply before following Clayton up the ladder and out of sight, leaving Horatio to collect their belongings, extinguish the lanterns, and make his way back out of the darkened hold.


	2. Navigating Deep Waters, Ch 2

_The slight, soft-bodied figure hung naked and suspended from the shrouds by every limb. Rough cord framed and pressed into shivering flesh. Almost within reach, an angel's face tormented him. Streaks of blood and pink welts adorned the girlish curves, ran voluptuously over skin and muscle and bone, together making a perfect sculpture, forcing him to trace every line with his gaze. Swollen nipples and nether flesh as tantalizing as fruit, pink bow lips asking to be assaulted, ravaged, plumbed until they begged for more. Sleeting rain could not cool the heat rising in him. The innocent was a waiting garden of delicate delights. He stared up into sea-blue eyes, reddened with tears, wide and pleading, and reached a hand up to test the texture of its flowers...  
_  
Horatio awoke with a start that almost pitched him from his hammock. His fingertips tingled and he was horrified to discover himself hard and jutting in his smalls. The vivid nightmare swam behind his eyes, sending a sick shiver through him. In his lap, _Justine_, the literary inspiration for his confused mind, sat like a viper. It was only with difficulty that he tucked the book under his bedding, rather than throwing it violently against the bulkhead as it deserved. He should never have touched the wretched volume again, but it had been a sure distraction from a difficult day.

The morning had brought them reinforcements to fill the _Justinian_'s empty ranks. Forty newly pressed men to work into the ship's company, to find berths, clothes, messes, and duties suitable to their varied, but generally insufficient skills. Forty resentful souls, torn some from their families, others only from the bottle or the cobbles of the street. Yet if they had wanted to serve in the war, they would not have needed to be pressed. They made a cacophony out of proportion to their numbers, with shouts and fights, clutter and weeping, tearing apart what fragile peace Horatio had made with shipboard routine.

Horatio had not been given any of the new men, thank God, but some of _Justinian_'s existing crew had been shifted under him. He now had to learn their names and habits and deal with a new set of insolent tricks. All the time feeling the heavy weight of self-scorn that he would presume to command such sailors, all with twice his years and ten times his experience at least. In the vast disruption of men and schedules, he had missed Archie.

Just at this moment, the thought was enough to make him blush. Yet he could not quite be ashamed to admit his reliance, his affection for Kennedy, whatever the face his erotic specters might wear. The tawdry French volume had been an ill-advised substitute, but it had at least been something of Archie's, similarly profane and irreverent.

Horatio had thought there would be no harm in reading through a few more lurid descriptions. He might improve his vocabulary, after all. And if the subject was revoltingly carnal, well it was less awkward to read about such matters than to listen to the talk of the older mids. Or to witness men performing with prostitutes, which he had now happened across more than once, when his heavy step had been insufficient warning to the revelers. _Justinian_ was not Kent, and his middle class propriety was doing him no service in the navy. If he did not care to be practiced, at least he need not appear ignorant, and thus invite mockery. So he had opened the book like a scholar after supper, prepared to dispassionately set about his research. His sleeping mind was apparently less philosophical.

A fragment of his dream, rain-darkened hair and dripping petal lips, drove him out of the bedding. It was near enough to change of watch, perhaps some cold night air would restore his body to sense. Glancing about to be sure no one was observing his state, Horatio was grateful for once that he no longer shared the rotation with Archie. That keen gaze would have found him out immediately.

There were more than the usual number of men up on deck, though it was not hard to find a place along the railing until his discomfort eased. Then, almost warily, he scanned about, looking for a certain stocky figure, who resembled his hermaphroditic phantasm rather too closely. It took time, particularly with the additional marines crowding the quarterdeck, muskets out, ready to shoot any deserter with enough skill at swimming to attempt the bay. But after first searching from his perch, then pacing the ship from bow to stern, Horatio finally satisfied himself that Archie was not here.

In fact, he could not distinctly recall seeing Archie since the call had come to go ashore with Mr. Simpson, more than a day before. Simpson had been about, making good use of practiced muscle to bring the new men of the division into obedience, but no bright shadow. There had been no barking "Kennedy!" to make him cringe, either, and now that he thought on it, no one had mentioned the midshipman at all, except Mr. Eccleston, who had come for the boy at supper with a harried expression, and left the mess unsatisfied.

The extended absence of any man from the mess should have caused comment, Horatio thought. Plunging down through the ship, he searched the full sick berth, checking every bed, despite the smell of illness that tested his still-delicate stomach. Kennedy wasn't there either.

Afraid of what he might turn up if he began a search of the usual hiding places, Horatio hurried back to the gundeck. Just a few moments observation as the new watch started their preparations was enough to convince him that there was some new thing amiss. The jokes and roughhousing that Horatio normally found wearying were entirely absent. Little was said and most of them, Hether and Clayton especially, seemed actually nervous, looking up whenever someone passed by the berth and at every loud noise. Desperate, he caught Clayton's eye, pleading silently. The older mid waved agreement and the two met in the head a short time later. There were few other places for private conversation while most of the crew was still awake.

"Archie is missing!" Horatio waited for a response, but Clayton just looked down and attended to business. "Have you seen him? Did he even make it back aboard?" When he hadn't found Kennedy in the sick berth, Horatio had been beset with vivid _Justine_-inspired notions of the boy being kidnapped, hog-tied, stripped, and subject to a bandit's ravages. As if Kennedy were some tragic heroine whose damned rose bud was in need of rescue. Surely the truth of Archie's absence was entirely ordinary, but his friend beaten and left behind to die in some Portsmouth alley was hardly a comfort.

Clayton's response was maddeningly bland. "Hether saw him come on with Simpson at the end of middle watch."

Horatio counted the hours. Too many. Three duty stations missed, at the least. "Then where is he? He's not in the sick berth. Why isn't he on watch? Lieutenant Eccleston was looking for him!"

"Let's hope the lieutenant doesn't find him."

"Shouldn't we be looking? He could be hurt!" Horatio put a hand on Clayton's arm, ready to drag the man down to the orlop right then.

The older mid shook free. "Simpson brought him back from the inn a bit worse for wear. Archie is probably just sleeping it off. He'll come out when he is ready to. He's done it before. Leave it alone, Horatio. He won't want to see you."

Horatio didn't want to add drunkard to the list of qualities that described his friend. And Clayton was too evasive for him to trust the man's explanation. "What if he has had a fit?"

Clayton looked him full in the face then, exasperated, but relented a moment later. "I'll find him, Horatio. Get yourself up on deck, and don't say anything."

He wanted to protest, but Clayton turned and left before he could phrase it, and Horatio ended back in the berth, impatience turning his stomach to bile. He quickly finished his preparations, missing Archie's hands to make his queue behave, and went up to his watch.

Horatio almost wore a path in the poop deck before Clayton came up, nodding at him with a small smile. After that, he was able to relax somewhat, but it was still the longest watch he'd stood yet, and he was exhausted and sick by the time he rushed down the fore hatch hours later.

Kennedy stood at the foot of the last ladder, hunched and small.

Horatio felt his heart begin to pound, and his skin flush with sudden rage. He had to force his steps to be slow and measured as he came down to the boy. The beating, because Horatio had no doubt at all that Kennedy suffered from more than an excess of drink, had not touched the mid's face. That was unmarked and as startlingly beautiful as ever, though the deep circles and drawn appearance spoke of pain and lack of sleep. But Archie held so bent and still, Horatio had to strangle his wrists behind his back, not to jerk at the boy's clothes and see for himself how badly Simpson had been at him. Jack liked to kick, and it was so easy to crack ribs, to injure the spleen or the liver, or dozen other tender organs. A man could die from blows to the stomach.

Horatio did not know where to start. What could you say when your dearest friend had been beaten like a dog, and you hadn't even noticed him missing for a day and a night. "Did you fall down the hold stairs, Mr. Kennedy?" He tried to smile, ducking so that Archie could not avoid meeting his eyes. Had it really been so short a time since that endless night in the sick berth, making his own recovery from Simpson's fists?

"No, Mr. Hornblower, it must have been something I ate in town, that did not agree with me." Archie clutched at his stomach, managing a wry little smile. "I should go up."

Horatio could not believe he was being asked to overlook this. He tried his firmest and most reasonable tone, the one he used when he was afraid his men would disobey him. "If you have been so ill as to miss your watch, should we not see the doctor?"

"He would only purge me or bleed me, and I've done enough of both already. I'll be fine, Horatio." Archie tried to move past him, to go up the ladder, but he blocked the steps.

"You can be honest with me."

"No, I truly can't." Archie gave a chill laugh, frightening Horatio badly. He stepped close, nevermind that Archie tried to shuffle back, and flinched when he took the boy's arm. He was surprised to note Archie did smell distinctly of brandy, among less pleasant odors.

"Now who is being soft-headed? Don't you trust me?" Archie made no reply to that, just stood there, determined to wait him out, perhaps. Horatio started again, coaxing now. "I know you have been drinking, Perhaps that impairs your judgment. Why do you not let me see the injury at least, Archie, and give my opinion." He pressed his hands against Kennedy's waistcoat, testing the underlying flesh, and began to undo the buttons.

"Leave me alone!" Archie jerked away so violently, the mid almost fell to the deck.

"Archie!" Horatio's anger flared, though he knew it should not. Why would Archie not let him help? Why protect Simpson? He wanted to shout at Kennedy, to force the boy to the surgeon, to demand an explanation for the missing day, and how Clayton had known where to find him. Was Archie angry with him? Were they still friends? How could they be friends, when there were so many secrets and so little faith?

Still, they were here, at the forehatch, now. That was something. "Archie, please." He moved slowly, arms spread out, non-threatening, but with a wide reach, the way one cornered a cow at milking time. "Just tell me what happened." Reaching out carefully, he found a hand, twined fingers together, pulled tight. Never letting go, he wrapped one arm about Archie, and spiraled the boy in. He draped himself around his friend like a cloak, and held on, ignoring the flinch and his own surge of panic that even this gentle embrace was causing pain.

Huddled against his friend's back, Horatio buried his nose in unwashed hair, smelling of the hold, of sick, of alcohol, and something else, bitter, and musky, not the usual scent of warm animal that he associated with Kennedy. "Please, Archie. Talk to me."

"No." The response was so petulant, Horatio almost wanted to laugh, it was so ridiculous. All of this was ridiculous. How could one man, one washed up midshipman, control so many lives?

Men were moving about, coming toward them. He dragged Archie with him away from the ladder, away from curious eyes, into a shadowed nook, then pulled the boy close again, cushioning the bulkhead with his body. Kennedy made such a small limp armful, Horatio felt that surge of anger returning. "I won't let him touch you again."

Archie immediately tried to squirm free. "Horatio, no. Don't try to help. You don't know what he can do."

Change of watch was starting in earnest now, but they were hidden. Horatio kept hold of the smaller boy, refused to let go. It wasn't hard to keep Archie close. It should have been. "What do you want from me, Archie? What if he kills you next time?"

"I'm not going to die. He doesn't want me dead."

Horatio couldn't keep himself from rattling the infuriating boy, shaking that deadness out. He spit whispers into Kennedy's ear. "So I must look the other way when he hurts you? Or do you want me to actually watch?" He didn't know where the hateful words were coming from, why he jostled Archie until the boy's head snapped, and even that didn't make him stop. "Maybe I can do you one better and hold your hands down, the next time Jack stretches you across a table. Will that make you happy?"

He shook Kennedy until the boy whimpered. The sound paralyzed him. Sick visions of his nightmare, twisted together with scenes from that awful book, and Horatio's mind threw up the revolting image of Archie, spread out in the mess. He was pinning Archie by the wrists, abusing his mouth, while Simpson, below was doing some other vile thing that he could not picture, did not want to picture, and then his groin throbbed and he was throwing Archie away from him, trying desperately not to void his belly onto the floorboards. "Oh God Archie, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I would never do that, I'm sorry."

He could not look at the boy. But then he felt those strong, always so strong, arms, wrapping about him in desperate embrace, and he gasped, trying not to cry. His chest heaved faster and faster, and he did not know where to put his hands, until Archie let him go again, and took them up, rubbing the knuckles over, and over again until Horatio had mastered himself enough to look up into those startling blue eyes.

"I would rather it be you, Horatio."


	3. Navigating Deep Waters, Ch 3

Horatio had hardly been able to sleep, and felt vastly unprepared for morning watch, but the bells had rung, whether he will them or not. Feeling traitorous, he stumbled up the aft hatch, not quite ready to face Kennedy.

"Larboard watch, remain on deck," Lieutenant Chadd's voice rang out, unexpected, and Horatio glanced up at the poop, and then out at the water, wondering what was the matter. The sea looked calm. "Mr. Kennedy!"

Startled, Horatio looked toward the bow of the ship, just in time to see Kennedy look away and, head down, begin walking the length to Chadd. "Aye, sir."

Lieutenant Eccleston was hovering nearby, but from the man's expression, what was about to happen would be unpleasant, and Horatio wasn't surprised that Chadd was left alone to handle the matter.

The rest of the mids, and more than a few of the seamen, gathered on the quarterdeck, watching as Kennedy ascended, straight shouldered, but moving very slowly, almost limping along. Horatio made his way onto the poop, in the guise of taking up post, and watched anxiously as the other boy teetered on the top step, then recovered, and crossed over to where the lieutenant impatiently waited, managing a tolerably graceful salute. "Yes, sir?"

"Mr. Kennedy, I did not see you at the start of middle watch."

"No, sir."

"Did you stand the first watch?"

A pause. "No, sir."

"Unless I mistake the schedule, larboard watch had the first watch, Mr. Kennedy, just as they had the morning watch." Horatio would have shriveled under the lieutenant's scorn, and ached for his friend. He caught sight of Simpson, below on the quarterdeck. The man was smirking, naturally, as he watched the show above.

"Yes, sir." Kennedy hesitated, then pressed a hand to his stomach. "I was ill, sir, and could not stand my watch."

"I do not recall seeing you at dinner, yesterday, Mr. Kennedy. And Mr. Eccleston could not find you at forenoon watch, nor supper, nor the dogwatches." The lieutenant's voice cracked. "You must have been very ill, Mr. Kennedy. Did you see Dr. Hepplewhite?"

"No, sir. Dr. Hepplewhite was busy, sir."

"Indeed he has been, Mr. Kennedy, busy with our new recruits. Do you think it sets a good example for the men, when one of their officers does not report for duty?"

"No, sir." The decks were starting to get thick now, as word spread that a midshipman was being called to account. The ratings liked nothing better than to watch an officer be taken down.

"And what of drunkenness, sir? What do you think the men would say about an officer drinking so much in port that he could not attend his post for a full day after?" Archie looked down at his feet then, and mumbled something. "What was that, Mr. Kennedy?" Chadd was relentless, his voice no doubt carrying to the bowsprit.

"The men could not think well of an officer who was so careless with drink," Archie repeated, louder, sticking out a stubborn chin.

"Indeed not, no one could. Have you been drinking, Mr. Kennedy?"

Horatio was watching closely, and caught Archie's glance to Simpson. "I have been ill, sir."

He was in agony. Now Archie's reputation, never strong among the sailors on account of the fits, was to be sullied further, while the architect of the boy's 'illness' went unpunished. The man wasn't at all concerned, Horatio saw, that Kennedy would confess the truth. In fact, Simpson was returning his own stare now, with the most unpleasant and mocking sneer.

"No more prevarications, Mr. Kennedy! Did you overindulge while on shore and render yourself unfit for duty?" There was an awful pause that seemed to stretch out for minutes, though the lieutenant was so impatient, it could not have been more than a few seconds, before with a grinding of jaw, Kennedy conceded.

"I regret to say that I did, sir." A ripple of reaction went out at that, and those who liked the little midshipman could be told apart by the winces. The rest, mid, marine, and rating alike, grinned, grumbled, or hooted, and gossiped with their neighbor over the punishment.

Horatio tried not to panic while Lieutenant Chadd consulted fiercely with a grim-faced Eccleston. The first lieutenant, at least, had winced. Depending on their temper, Archie could be charged against the Articles, even with a hanging offense, if Chadd were out for blood. Horatio promised himself he would speak then, whatever the consequences. Kennedy did not look concerned, though, just pale, and standing less upright than usual, stared out toward the Portsmouth shore.

The verdict came in. "You are young, Mr. Kennedy, and this is your first offense," Chadd's gaze narrowed, "of this nature. Mr. Hether!" The mid, standing near Horatio, jumped and saluted.

"You may go below. Mr. Kennedy will take your place on the starboard watch. It seems he requires more attention than the first lieutenant can spare. Mr. Kennedy, at the forenoon, report to the starboard center gun, where the bosun will provide an additional reminder of the importance of doing one's duty. I trust you will be in the future a more fitting example to the crew." The lieutenants started to turn away.

"But sir!" The grumbling that had started among the men at the exceedingly lenient punishment was abruptly cut off in a collective gasp of surprise. Chadd swiveled on Kennedy with a bug-eyed disbelief. Even Simpson looked worried.

"You have something more to say, Mr. Kennedy?"

Archie responded in a quieter voice, but Horatio had managed to edge closer by this point, and caught the rest of their discussion. "Mr. Chadd sir, the accepted punishment for drunkenness is to be seized at the gratings, sir. I would not wish to cause discontent among the crew by a lighter penalty."

"Questioning the orders of your superior officer is a far greater incitement to mutiny. And you are not a _man_, Midshipman Kennedy, who would be _flogged and disrated_," Chadd's voice rose and rang out across the ship, "for dereliction of duty, but only a _boy_, who can still be corrected. Be grateful that we do not wish to trouble the captain with a court martial."

Horatio could not suppress the disloyal thought that it would have been a good example to the men if Captain Keane had troubled to at least come out of the cabin, given the unusual gathering taking place that morning on the quarterdeck. Surely the commotion occurring right above the captain's bed could not have been missed.

Chadd consulted briefly with the first lieutenant, now looking like he was the one recovering from too much drink. "Mr. Kennedy, in your drunken stupor you neglected _three_ watches. Therefore, in addition to your normal duties, you will serve the _three_ night watches for the next _three_ days, and at forenoon Thursday, report to the gun, where the bosun will have to exercise himself with _three_ times the vigor, to be sure this mistake is never repeated again. Am I clear, Mr. Kennedy?"

"Yes, sir." Horatio did not understand why Kennedy should look relieved.

Eccleston finally stepped forward, "Larboard watch, dismissed! Clear these decks of idlers!" It took some shoving and threats to get the crew below for breakfast, and Horatio could hear the ones who had been above carrying the tale to those below as they went.

He wasn't lookout this morning, and should have gone below too, but he couldn't leave Archie, who had taken up watch where the boy could subtly lean against the taffrail. The lieutenants finally went below themselves, and Horatio was able to edge over. He put his hand over a smaller one, and silently asked.

Archie laughed, just a little, and answered him without looking. "A flogging hurts less, especially after. One can sit down at least."

Horatio had seen boys caned at school and under a cruel hand it could be brutal. But he'd caught sight of some of the rating's scars from the cat, and found Kennedy's claim hard to believe. Perhaps the pain was less than the injury to the boy's pride from being treated like a child. He thought Archie showed a strange time to suddenly be concerned with dignity. Honor would have been Simpson tied to the grating and Kennedy back to bed.

"You've had both then?" Archie nodded and shrugged. Horatio was startled at his friend's casual demeanor. His father had not approved of corporal punishment, and he had managed to avoid it at school as well. He was reminded again how different Kennedy's life had been from his.

"My last captain didn't always think me too young for a proper flogging. It's been nothing but the cane on _Justinian_ though." Archie flexed scarred fingers, in the memory of pain, and Horatio gaped.

"Caned your hands! But they could have broken something!" He grabbed them, to examine as carefully as he had ever wanted to, now that he had the excuse of it.

For all that they were small, they were long fingered, broad across the palm, callused, but not hardened, still supple. The backs were peppered with faint red marks, slightly raised. He could see the pattern now, and traced each gently with a fingertip, fighting the sudden, childish urge to kiss them. As if, after so long, he could still erase the pain and scars with such simple magic.

Archie twitched, a sudden shiver, but did not pull away. "That was the general idea. To keep me out of the rigging. It's rarely the hands, though. A mid can still climb the mast with a welted arse."

Horatio thought back to that day when Archie had rescued him after Simpson tricked him into the shrouds. The boy had been so easy in the ropes, as if gifted with extra hands and feet, coaxing him along, wrapped around his body so that Horatio could not fall. Risking death, he realized now, if he had panicked again and knocked them both loose, rather than finding his grip and being led back to safety. Strange how he had never otherwise seen Kennedy off the deck.

He let go Kennedy's hands at last. "You're not allowed."

"No. The fits." There was a familiar grimace, a scrunching of the nose as if biting a lemon. Yet another bitterness. "I loved to be up top. They couldn't keep me out any other way."

Horatio couldn't stop himself from touching, from stroking an apology with tentative fingers. "I'd wondered for weeks about your hands, but I was afraid to say anything, I didn't want to pry."

"You should never be afraid to ask, Horatio. If I don't want to tell you something, I simply won't." Archie smiled at him then, and awoke his smoldering fury.

The boy had no business grinning at him. No right to look so bright and warm and handsome in the same moment that hunched body curled, exhausted, barely upright, was remembering another joy that Simpson had taken away.

It wasn't right, and Horatio was tired of being angry for Archie. As if he were some manner of siphon, draining away the other's pain and bitterness and wrath. So that Kennedy didn't have to feel it, just stand there, vivid and lovely and delicate and pure, while Horatio felt ugly, impotent, and vile.

His hands clenched into fists on the railing. "No, you won't, will you. You don't have any trouble keeping your secrets."

Archie protested his tone. "Horatio, don't be angry with me for having secrets. That's not fair."

"Nothing in life is fair, Mr. Kennedy, you told me that yourself. Said something about lying too, so at least I've had my warning."

One warm brown hand wrapped over his fist. "This is honest, Horatio. Whatever else I might be, this, at least, is honest. I need you. Please."

The frustration drained out of him, so easily, under the familiar press of fingers, leaving behind only weariness, and wariness. Horatio still couldn't bring himself to look, not sure he could withstand more of Archie's beauty, let alone his friend's pain. But his thumb stroked a slow acknowledgment over the hand in his.

_Yes._


	4. Navigating Deep Waters, Ch 4

That whole first day, he hardly let his friend out of his sight. He and Archie were on the same watch, now, and Simpson was not. He could see Archie all the time, not just snatching moments at mealtime, or catching glimpses in the hatchway, or at a rare shared drill.

Yet Horatio could not feel anything but persistent dread. Too much was wrong, and he didn't know how to make it right. He could only lurk about, tracking anxiously each time his friend swayed or winced, or lapsed into stares. Until the next limping step, or forced smile, or blinking focus reassured him that for a few minutes longer, Kennedy was with him.

He could tell that his protectiveness irritated Archie, but his friend was in too much pain, and by the start of morning watch, too exhausted, to complain. When he settled into a corner of the quarterdeck, rather than head down to his hammock, Kennedy just sighed, and let him be, propping up against a nearby railing. Archie looked more like a ghost than a boy between the moonlight and Horatio's tired eyes.

He had dozed off when he felt a gentle hand shake him. "Come below, Mr. Hornblower."

It was Lieutenant Eccleston. Naturally, Horatio got up, and followed the officer down the hatch. But he spared a backward glance to find Kennedy, now wedged near the flag cabinets, staring off at nothing. He hated to leave Archie looking like that, but he had no choice. Eccleston took him all the way down to the midshipman's berth before stopping to talk to him.

The lieutenant wore a grim, uncomfortable expression. "I hope you will listen to some advice, Mr. Hornblower."

Horatio blinked. "Of course, sir, I would be honored."

Eccleston didn't meet his eyes. "Mr. Kennedy can be very amiable company, and he is well liked, among the men who do _not_ work with him closely." Horatio stiffened with the implied insult. "But as yesterday's events have shown, he is an intemperate man."

"With respect, sir, I believe that Mr. Kennedy has... that there were circumstances which were not considered with regard to Mr. Kennedy's actions."

"Mr. Kennedy has a regrettable service record which had to be taken into account. He was the subject of disciplinary action on his last two ships. I do not like to be so blunt, Mr. Hornblower, but he is a troublemaker and I would hate to see you tarred with the same brush."

Horatio hadn't realized that Archie's problems predated Simpson and the _Justinian_. He shifted uncomfortably as he recalled his own early doubts about Kennedy's attitude and behavior. Still, he knew that in this instance at least, Archie was not to blame. Surely it was not an overindulgence of drink that caused his friend to still move like a hobbled horse.

"Whatever his past actions, sir, I believe Mr. Kennedy to be a friend any could be proud to have."

This answer obviously pained Eccleston. "You are new to the service, Mr. Hornblower and do not have the experience to judge. Mr. Kennedy is charming enough for his type." Horatio wondered just what type Eccleston had in mind.

"Many have begun by being fond of him. But he does not wear well. The reports from his previous postings, combined with his unfortunate condition... let us say that considerable interest had to be levied to gain him a peacetime berth on _Justinian_. I trust you understand me?"

"Yes, sir." Horatio had assumed Kennedy came from money, from his friend's clothes, books, and sea chest, though Archie was generally vague about his family. He hadn't thought before about how that money could buy blindness. He wondered what interest and connections Simpson possessed, and if that was the explanation for the man's tyranny.

"In deference to his connections, Mr. Kennedy has not been given any correction that would further mar his record, however he has deserved it. But he does not appear to be grateful." This clearly annoyed Eccleston, and the officer paused before going on. "I commend your loyalty, Mr. Hornblower, and we all feel sorry for the lad at times. But I understand from Captain Keane that you do not share Mr. Kennedy's level of influence."

Horatio recalled what the Captain had said in their interview, that he would have done better to choose a lord, than a doctor, for a father, if he wanted a career in the service. He pressed his lips together and said nothing.

"In your first month, _already_ you have been caught fighting, Mr. Hornblower." He had to clench his jaw to keep from protesting this further unjust rebuke. "You cannot follow Mr. Kennedy's example and hope to gain a commission."

This seemed to require a reply. "No, sir."

Eccleston clapped him on the shoulder. "You are a smart man, His Majesty's Navy needs men who can think. Keep your head down, choose your friends more wisely, and you might go far."

"Yes, sir. Thank you." The whole conversation had wearied Horatio completely. He hated that his friend was so unjustly thought of, and now even he was questioning a little the reasons. Kennedy had too many secrets. Luckily, the lieutenant left him then, and Horatio, knowing he should not go back on deck, stole a couple fitful hours rest before the bells rang for breakfast.

* * *

It was afternoon watch of the second day, but they had it at leisure. Kennedy had gone from listless to almost insubstantial as the hours passed At dinner he had hardly been able to get the boy to eat. That dead, deep water stare could not mean anything good and desperate, Horatio had asked permission to bring his hammock down early.

Some premonition made him cast the bedding straight on the floor, in a shadowed corner as far as possible from the mess table, and there he had sat with a book and a candle, and Archie. His friend had gone down to sleep without even a protest, and lay curled, looking impossibly young, at his side.

Eccleston's warnings plagued him. The description of a man without a sense of duty or honor seemed wholly incompatible with his sweet, laughing, competent Archie, who had taught him so much in the short weeks they'd known each other. He was tired enough to want to lay down himself, and wrap around his friend and sleep until the world righted and dispelled this gloom.

But that would likely wake Archie and it seemed unmanly besides-even, in the light of his recent dreams, untoward-to want to fall into bed with his friend and hold him closely like a child or a lover. That was a thought he did not want to follow, but as if hearing his fleeting, uncomfortable desire, Kennedy jerked then, and cried out, and began to shake and flail.

It was exactly what he had feared, yet Horatio found his mind strangely clear. He did lay down then, winding arms and legs about his friend's flailing limbs, not to restrain, but just to keep Archie from hitting or hurting either of them, or upsetting the candle. It was safer to be close. The other mids, hearing the groaning, started to get up.

"It is just a fit, I have him, gentlemen." He shouted hurriedly, knowing that Archie hated to be stared at like this, hated even that _he_ should see it.

It was not as loud as some of the fits could be, but it lasted a long time. Horrid, wrenching spasms that looked like agony, though he knew Archie did not feel them, unless they caused a fall or other injury. Horatio kept himself between the bulkhead and his friend, pulled Archie back when the shaking threatened to spill the mid's contorting body onto the hard boards, and finally, it eased.

"There, Archie, it's passed. You will be all right. You're safe, just rest." He kissed a sweating temple, over the spot where he knew fair hair hid a red raised seam. "Just rest, I am here."

Archie's eyes opened for only a moment, rims of sapphire around huge dark pupils. Then eyelids fluttered shut again, and his friend dropped back into sleep. Horatio could breathe now, tugging Kennedy close.

He hated himself for thinking it, but Archie was never so lovely as right after a fit. The mid became boneless, at no other time so unwary that he could hold the other like this, without any flinching or sharp elbows, or disgruntled fretting. He found a handkerchief and wiped away the flecks of foam and spittle from chin and lips, then straightened the limp greasy hair as best he could.

Kennedy might manage to _look_ beautiful, even far too pale, shadowed and drawn from exhaustion and pain, but as Horatio held onto that precious armful, he had to admit that Archie didn't _smell_ particularly good. It had been hard to even keep Kennedy on his feet for the extra watches and normal duties, to stuff enough food in at meals to keep body and soul together.

Horatio wasn't sure the mid had so much as changed shirts since Sunday. He might do that much at least, since Archie would not wake easily now, and he could finally get a look at what Simpson had done to his friend, the worrisome injuries that still caused pain and weakness days later.

Sitting up, Horatio had to steel his heart against the faint whimper Archie made, squirming into the void he left behind. Setting to the waistcoat buttons, he had just begun undoing the first when a hard hand grabbed his queue, yanking him back to where a strong, muscled arm could wrap around his neck muffling his attempt to cry out.

"I was right about you, Snotty."

Simpson should have been on watch. Horatio lay still, hoping the man would release him if he didn't fight.

"A fancier of other boys. What were you doing to Kennedy? Going to fondle him while he was helpless, you sick little buggerer?" Simpson squeezed hard enough to make Horatio gasp, before shoving him violently away from Kennedy.

The accusation was absurd, Horatio didn't even know how to answer it, except with the truth. "I was changing Mr. Kennedy's shirt, Mr. Simpson. It is soiled." He rubbed at his aching neck, eyeing how Simpson was now between him and his friend.

"I saw you, laying next to him, rubbing up against him. Did you get too worked up, with his arse pounding at you while he shook? Had to see what was in his breeches? Sick bastard."

Horatio felt ill. How long had Jack been watching, and why would the man put such a foul interpretation on his actions? It was like some nightmare from that de Sade book, him taking advantage of his friend's illness.

"Your insinuation, Mr. Simpson, is reprehensible. I suggest that you withdraw it immediately."

"I know what I saw, Hornblower. I've seen how you watch, Kennedy. Following him around like an ugly puppy, always touching him, rubbing up against him, holding his hand like a sweetheart, staring at him when you think no one is looking."

Horatio knew he was flushing. Some of that might be true, but not for the vile reason Simpson was implying. He cared about Archie, worried for the other boy, almost his only friend in the world, and the closest. If he kept track of Archie, it was because of Simpson, because of his fear about what Jack would do next. If they held hands, or touched, it was because in the poison of the midshipmen's berth, they could not communicate their concern and mutual caring in a more open way.

"If you do not desist in your vile remarks, I will be forced to seek satisfaction, Mr. Simpson."

"I thought that was what I interrupted, seeking satisfaction. What, do you want to fight a duel for Kennedy's honor, Snotty? He doesn't have any, you know. You wouldn't be the first prick he opened his arse to, and you wouldn't be the last."

Horatio gaped, he couldn't help it. Jack's vulgar claim was spite, he was certain. He noticed often how strangely Archie acted, running so hot and cold, sometimes overly familiar, others prickly as a hedgehog. But there was nothing really _womanish_ about Archie except the mid's face. He knew his friend wasn't as innocent as the boy looked. He had seen Kennedy with a prostitute, after all. But it was simply unbelievable that Archie could be what Simpson said, a _catamite_.

"Clayton!" The shout startled Horatio, who still hadn't managed to reply to Simpson's outrageous slander. On the bed, Archie shuddered, and curled into a ball, but didn't seem to wake.

"Yes, Jack?" The older mid spoke quietly, just a few feet away. Horatio had not noticed the man get up and come over to them. Clayton's handsome, weary face was very still.

"Take care of Kennedy. Young Horny here can't be trusted around the boy. Caught him trying to undress Kennedy, who knows what he was planning." Jack flashed a menacing sneer at Horatio. "Get Kennedy a new shirt, whatever he needs, and don't let Horny near him. I don't want to hear they've been alone together. Understand?"

"Yes, Jack." Horatio already hated that soothing, complacent tone.

Simpson leaned in "Stay away from Kennedy, Horny. Far away. Don't sit with him, don't bunk near him, don't talk to him. Unless you want me to tell the Captain what sort of perversions you get up to, in the sail locker... or will it be the light room?"

Horatio wanted to protest that there was nothing to tell, that he would welcome the chance to talk to the Captain. To finally lay out the abuses everyone had suffered under Simpson at the feet of the man responsible for them all. But buggery was a hanging offense, one of the Articles, and even the hint of the accusation...

After the last few days Horatio wasn't still naive enough to think it wouldn't cause trouble for both of them, a boy without interest to protect him, and another who was on a last chance even with the right connections. There would be examinations, a court martial, and if anything that Simpson had said was true at all... His gaze trailed inevitably to where Archie lay, small, vulnerable, sick. He couldn't take the chance.

"I understand you, Mr. Simpson." He gritted it out through his teeth.

"I don't think you do." Simpson leaned close enough for Horatio to smell the man's groggy breath. "Just stay away, Horny. I'll know. I know everything that happens on this ship."

Clayton intervened then, pulling Horatio away. "Best that you go sit at the table, Horatio. I'll watch over him." Clayton handed him his book, and Horatio, not knowing what to do, not sure how Simpson had managed to take away even his friend, went where he was bid. After a few more seconds to stare about at them all, Simpson disappeared back into the shadows, presumably to return to the deck.


	5. Navigating Deep Waters, Ch 5

Somehow they all made it through that last awful night. Horatio had watched as best he could from the mess table, as Clayton stripped and washed and redressed Kennedy, who hardly stirred except a few incoherent protests. When the older mid finally shook Archie awake for their watch, his friend seemed much better, and looked for him immediately.

It was so hard then not to go to Archie, but Horatio knew that Simpson had spies among the volunteers and other mids. So he stayed where he was and hoped that Clayton was explaining what had happened, why he had to keep his distance. When they were up on deck, Kennedy stayed away, did not even look at him, so he supposed that the warning had been given. It was strange how much warmer the night had seemed when he had Archie to share it with.

* * *

A curious incident early in the watch interrupted his brooding. Two seamen separately approached him, as he paced the deck, to offer up their grog ration, and one a biscuit. He did not know their names, only had some vague idea that they were in Kennedy's division.

Horatio felt as awkward as they seemed to, no one speaking their true mind. He took their gifts with labored thanks, and hoped he did not offend. Why they had come to him, not Archie, and what was he meant to do? He didn't think his friend would get much comfort out of the presents, though they were kindly meant.

Devising a plan made the hours of first watch pass more bearably. He ended up trading the grog rations to the cook's mate, and promising his own the next day, to boil a cup of coffee for him. The biscuit he used to bribe one of the always-hungry volunteers to deliver the cup to Archie, with the message that it was 'compliments of his men.' Surely if the gift was not sufficiently bracing, the sentiment would be.

After, laying in his hammock, Horatio felt proud of himself. That sort of horse trading was just as Kennedy would do, though his friend would have driven a better bargain, no doubt. His thoughts drifted upward, two decks above, and made him melancholy. The pad of his bedding was damp, and smelled of sweat and illness and Archie.

Horatio got little sleep that night, but more, he supposed, than his friend. At least he did not dream.

* * *

When he came up, an hour before the start of forenoon watch, Kennedy was pacing back and forth down the quarterdeck, one hand on the rail, clearly struggling to stay awake. Horatio noted that at least the mid was moving better, steps halted by exhaustion, but not hindered by pain. It took a few trips before Archie caught sight of him, lingering in the shadow of the fore hatch. Then, amazingly, Kennedy grinned.

Horatio felt the familiar flash of anger. Beaten by Jack, three days watch on almost no sleep, and in an hour the mid would be humiliated and whipped. Of course his friend was smiling.

It was Archie's way of not letting them win, he understood that. And he forced himself to smile back, to catch Kennedy's hand for the briefest moment and tap out the code that meant 'hold fast'. But as he walked the other way down the deck, Horatio was cursing on the inside. To the devil with Simpson, and with this whole bloody ship!

* * *

By the time the last of the eight bells rang, Horatio was certain his stomach had decided to rebel against the sea again. He watched Kennedy give the watch report to Lieutenant Eccleston, then march, straight shouldered and stiff, down the ladder to the first gundeck.

Caning was generally an informal, almost private, punishment but Archie was being made an example of and Horatio found that many of the midshipmen, Simpson included, had gathered below to watch. On the quarterdeck, seamen delayed their breakfast to catch a glimpse, and far more men were aloft than needed to be. Festooning the shrouds like autumn fruit, each craned their necks to look their fill, gossiping and chatting like so many vultures.

Keane was insufficiently vigorous to be much of a flogging captain, and Horatio hadn't witnessed the two whippings before this. They had been Simpson's fault as well, older midshipmen punished for fighting, though more harshly than he had been. Horatio did not want to witness this caning now, but felt it would be disloyal to hide away.

He was just coming down the hatch when Lieutenant Chadd's high harsh voice rang out.

"His Britannic Majesty's Navy understands that, from time to time, boys will be in error and need correction, else their flaws become fatal to duty and morale when they are commissioned officers. Mr. Kennedy, prepare yourself."

Horatio stumbled to a halt as his friend, with awful casualness, unbuttoned breeches and smalls, and shoved them down to the thigh before reaching across the cannon to take the hands of the bosun's mate. The squat, burly man yanked smoothly, pulling Kennedy up and over the barrel, into a position both exposed and ridiculous. Horatio could hear the sniggers from some of the mids and young gentlemen, as well as catcalls from the rowdy seamen above.

His gaze was drawn unwillingly to the bared flesh. His friend was better grown than he, but round still, with an almost girlish softness. Horatio was reminded with a surge of hot discomfort of the last time he'd seen Kennedy's arse. Simpson had been there then too, gloating, just as now. The older mid was standing only a few feet away, studying the vulnerable target with considerable fascination.

"As Mr. Kennedy was negligent for three duty watches, let us have three sets of six strokes, and do not go lightly." The lieutenant instructed the bosun. "Spare the rod, spoil the child."

There were scars on Archie's skin, a handful of thin red lines, crossed over others, paler with time. Horatio had seen nothing like it, and the pattern mesmerized him. How did mutilating a boy's flesh—or a man's—equate to discipline? The proverb rang hollow.

If Kennedy did not meet the standards of the Navy, then here was proof that the cane had not kept the boy from being spoiled. If the previous whippings had been equally unjust, then perhaps it was the cane itself that had spoiled his friend, had turned Archie mercurial and secretive and lazy, as his own short weeks on Justinian had turned him mutinous and resentful.

Eighteen strokes! How many more wounds would they leave in that pale tender flesh? What would they feel like? His eyes took in how Archie's legs were clenched tightly together so that there was no sway as his friend dangled, everything stiff and tight and waiting. The lines danced across tensing flanks. Did they ache or were they numb? Were the marks raised to the touch, like the ones on Archie's hands he had played over so often?

* * *

The first crack of the cane startled him out of this sick reverie, and suddenly there was a new stripe, swollen, scarlet, blooming on that lovely body. "One." Archie's breath was driven out in a whump, but other than that inadvertent exhalation, the mid made no noise.

"Two." The second blow whistled down as hard as the first, and Horatio jerked with it. The bosun did not seem to enjoy it, but neither did it revolt the man. Horatio's thoughts flickered suddenly to a passage from that damned book. About the schoolmaster who whipped his pupils on the slightest cause, taking inordinate satisfaction in every welt and whimper.

The bosun might be indifferent, but as Horatio looked about, he saw lust in many faces, blood lust. Pleasure being taken in the beating of a beautiful boy, because... "Three." Because Archie _was_ beautiful, or because Archie was an officer, or young, or sharp-tongued, or rich, or whatever hundred reasons man could find to hate man with a petty heart.

His own heart was no less suspect. Did every blow rock him, jerk down deep in his belly, make his chest ache with held breath because of the injustice of it?

Or was there some truth to Simpson's accusations, some wrongness in him that made his desires twist in unnatural ways? Distorted, inverted, like his nightmare, like the French phrases that continued to haunt him. Did his gaze linger for other reasons? Did he secretly long, as the villains in de Sade, to wield the cane? Or to abuse his friend in a more sinful way?

"Five." They flinched together under the stroke. His friend's arse seemed strange, reddened all over now. Astonishing, like the hindquarters of some African ape, lewdly illustrated in his father's books.

Was anything true that Simpson had said? Jack knew everyone's secrets. Did Kennedy have inclinations? Had his friend drawn him in, tempted him to inappropriate thoughts with those teasing hands and little gifts, with thighs pressed close and books filled with horrid sensuality?

Kennedy made a startled sound, and writhed, fighting not to squirm, not to try and escape. "Seven." Horatio had to move, could not stand in one place for this, could not watch. Between the blows of the cane and the doubts swimming in his mind, he felt thoroughly bedeviled.

Trying not to be obvious, he edged out of place. The near hatch was crowded with gawking men, so he crossed down the main deck, hoping to make the other hatch and flee, without being noticed. But he couldn't help glancing back, over his shoulder, to where the mate crouched, pulling Kennedy taut over the cannon.

"Nine." Kennedy's head flew up, and those ocean eyes went wide, lips pressed to a thin line as a small grunt escaped. Horatio caught a glimpse of brighter red in the corner of his vision. The last stroke had split the swelling skin from some previous blow, and there was blood now.

Horatio stopped dead, then deliberately stepped into Archie's line of sight. "Ten." His friend blinked. Kennedy was sweating. He knew the moment Archie saw him. There was a sigh, and then a pulling; he was being drawn into the watery depths. He no longer needed to escape.

Instead, once again, Horatio felt himself a siphon, unable to keep from hopeless weeping anger, while his friend lay before him, hollow, dry-eyed. But there was at least a purpose to his being here.

"Twelve." Red on Archie's chin now, where his friend bit through white lip, with the effort of not crying out. He could hear from the changed sound of the cane, wetter, sharper, that blood was flowing freely now. The focus of that blue stare tore into him, so strong that he had to clasp his hands behind him to keep from wrenching at the bosun's mate.

To keep from taking the man's place and holding Kennedy down himself. _I would rather it be you, Horatio._ Now he understood.

"Thirteen." Doubts slid away. There was no lust here. Only love. Only the knowledge that he would do anything for this boy, this mysterious, confusing, precious boy. He could hold those scarred hands and give his strength. "Fourteen." He could shed his own tears without shame, when Archie could not. He felt them now, cold on his cheeks. "Fifteen."

He could lie, he could break the rules, violate the Articles and every hypocrisy hidden there, in the name of true honor, true justice. "Seventeen." And if it would help Archie endure, he could merely watch this, accept this, knowing the truth. His gaze dragged up, met Simpson's cold glare across the body of his friend. "Eighteen."

He knew he could kill, too, to keep it from _ever_ happening again.


	6. Navigating Deep Waters, Ch 6

The ancient Greeks had a word for it, _philos_. The loyalty that ties together friends, family, community. A love between equals. This transformative feeling, that he had thought would come naturally in the brotherhood of the Navy, had been confined instead to one, singular creature. For all the horror of this last hour, this last week, Horatio felt unaccountably euphoric.

But Archie only stared through the place where Horatio stood, not seeing him, perhaps not seeing anything. The bosun caught his friend before Kennedy could quite collapse. Helped the boy, roughly, to pull up clothes and turn to face the lieutenant.

Lieutenant Chadd did not look satisfied, stiff and defensive with chin and chest puffed out. Addressing the freed midshipman without actually seeing the results of the work, Chadd's voice was almost airily business-like.

"I trust, Mr. Kennedy, that this will serve as an adequate reminder of the virtues of temperance. And the utmost importance that an officer of His Majesty's Navy, as well as any of its seamen, must place on being at all times fit and ready for his assigned duties."

"Y-yes, sir." The mid's voice was hoarse and labored, but clear. "It will not happen again, sir."

"I trust not. Return to your duties." Lieutenant Chadd pivoted about, sending a glare at the gathered men. "All of you!"

A chorus of aye's greeted this order, but Horatio did not care what the man wanted. He lingered behind as mids and ratings peeled away to breakfast or duties, some subdued by the bloodletting, others invigorated. The sole object of his concern stood very still, breeches clutched to waist, the first stains of red already seeping through the cloth. Horatio realized his friend's hands, all of the boy, were shaking too badly to manage the buttons.

Hoping Simpson had gone down with the others, but not truly caring, Horatio came close and began to tend to Archie. His own hands were shaking, too.

"Mr. Hornblower, no. I can... I will..."

Horatio ignored the protest. As quick and careful as he could be, he still winced at Archie's indrawn breath when he tugged the waistband into place and fastened the last button.

"You're about to fall over. Is there anything I can do for you?" It seemed so inadequate a phrase to the howling need he had to show Kennedy, somehow, what he had realized, what he had accepted. Everything that he hoped Kennedy might accept from him..

"I could use a drink." Considering what Kennedy had just been punished for, rightly or wrongly, Horatio did not think this was particularly funny. With typical deftness, Archie had managed to puncture his ideals.

"Don't scowl at me, Hornblower. Just now I'm not up for your priggishness. Leave me be, before Jack comes back and makes it all worse."

"Worse than this? I'm not afraid of it. I don't think it's possible." He wanted to punch something at the mere thought of Simpson, but was gentle as he tried to take Archie's arm. "Can you manage the ladder?"

"It can always be worse." Archie jerked free, almost oversetting. "Please, leave me alone, Hornblower."

Horatio forced himself to step back then, knowing he should not vex his poor friend further. He twisted his hands behind his back to keep from reaching out, but he couldn't keep the violent need from his voice. "I have to talk to you, Archie. Please. When can we meet? First dogwatch?"

"No. It's not safe, Hornblower, Jack will find out."

"Hang, Jack! I need to see you." His vehemence startled Archie, who finally looked up at him. His friend's face was alarmingly white and blotchy, lips almost gray where the blood did not stain them. Against this pale canvas, Archie's eyes seemed to lose their color too, more like ice than the sea or sky.

"Why won't you listen? You know we cannot be friends any longer. What more is it going to take for you to understand?"

The accusation in that gaze was almost enough to paralyze him. Did Kennedy blame him for what Simpson had done to him on shore? Or Lieutenant Chadd? Or just for witnessing it? Or did Kennedy really think he would give up, so easily abandon him?

He met that cold glare with his own, desperate earthy honesty. His friend needed to believe him. "I will always be your friend Archie. No one, certainly not Jack Simpson, is going to take you away from me. Never."

Horatio had never been more sure of anything in his life. Not why, or how, but _what_ he felt, that certainly. Without shame. And he had to share it, before it burst him into shrapnel. "Please meet me Archie, we'll be careful. Please." He let himself reach out then, brushed gentle fingers across the back of Kennedy's hand. The other boy sighed.

"All right, all right, whatever you want. Where? Sail locker?" Horatio thought back to Simpson's words. The older mid knew about the sail locker, and the light room too.

"No, the hold, forward, where the water casks are."

"Forward hold, first dogwatch, aye, aye, sir. Is that all?"

Horatio was hurt by the weary sarcasm, but under the circumstances, it was preferable to Kennedy dredging up some reservoir of false cheerfulness. "Yes, until then, Archie."

Horatio headed for the hatch, trying not to look back, just hoping that Archie would follow in his wake.

Horatio scrambled down the last hatch, silently cursing and praying Archie was still waiting.

He had been just about to leave the midshipman's mess, a discreet few minutes after his friend, when one of the older volunteers had stopped him. Lieutenant Eccleston had apparently recommended that the boy come to him for help with his beginning trigonometry exercises, and Horatio had not felt that he could beg off without insulting the lieutenant or causing comment.

It had taken almost half an hour before the idiot child could reliably identify and calculate the sine, cosine, and tangent of any angle in a triangle, and with that elementary understanding in place, be set to problems and dismissed.

It was near dark as pitch in the hold, just a few fragments of light stolen from above to line the edges of boxes and barrels. Horatio hadn't dared take a candle when he left the mess; too obvious a proof that he intended to go below. In fact he'd gone up on deck first, just to throw off any possible watchers. It felt ridiculous to have to skulk about like a spy. Only his promise to Archie and the memory of Simpson's threat kept him cautious, but that was enough.

So he had to fumble his way blind through the unfamiliar landscape. He only found Archie by tripping over the boy, and the resulting whimper. The injured mid was laying across a wide cask, where Horatio had not quite expected him, and it took careful patting about in the dark to find the limits of his friend, and pull the limp body up against him.

Something seemed terribly wrong, but he wasn't sure what it was until he realized that the boy clinging to him was shuddering, not with cold, though Kennedy's hands were icy, but with quiet broken sobs.

"Oh, Archie, does it hurt so much?"

He had never once known Kennedy to cry, these past awful weeks, no matter how scared or hurt or angry. A distant stare, or scowl, or sneer, or worse, a smile and hollow laughter at the whatever had become the latest indignity. Never tears, never this damp collapsing against his chest. _He_ was the one who cried, and he started now, his heart feeling so squeezed and tight in his chest that it was all he could do not to clutch just as fiercely around his precious friend.

Horatio didn't recognize his own voice, growling urgently in his friend's ear. "He is never touching you again, never laying his crimes at your feet. I promise you, Archie. Never."

Kennedy instantly tried to get away, "Why won't you listen? I tried to tell you, he did too, but you won't listen!" Horatio held on, and quickly wearied, Archie gave up and lay still, mumbling more denials in a fresh waved of sobs. "We cannot be friends, not anymore. Jack will kill you!"

Horatio was baffled by Kennedy's near hysteria. "Hush, Archie, hush. I know what you think, but you're not alone against him anymore. I'm not alone. We have each other, don't you see?" Planting soft kisses on the boy's hair, he rocked Kennedy against him, echoing a faded memory of his mother. "Together, we can stop him, Archie. Clayton, the others, they don't want his tyranny any more than we do, they'll help us. We mustn't let him split us apart."

Archie's voice was bitter and thick. "No, we can't. Please, Horatio, don't do this... Don't fight him, just let me go."

Horatio knew he could _never_ do that, was desperate for some way to prove it, to convince his friend of his devotion. His too-long nose found Archie first, nuzzling cold wet cheeks. Then his mouth, tasting the tears, salty-sweet. He couldn't stop himself from kissing those precious eyes, damp lashes fluttering against his skin.

Finally, not daring to-not having enough thought to dare it, just an overwhelming need-he brushed against those small curved lips.

Salty too, and stiff, startled under his own. Horatio didn't know what he was doing. He only had this vague notion that he could take all the warm pure feelings bursting inside of him and push them into Archie. Could comfort his friend with the truth of it. Could soothe away this latest nightmare with a kiss.

Then the trembling mouth under his moaned, and warmth turned to fire, _philos_ to _eros._

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	7. Navigating Deep Waters, Ch 7

Horatio's lips parted in a gasp, and he pulled Archie's cry into his mouth. There was nothing aberrant about it. No, it was the most natural feeling in existence to press flesh against flesh, to share one breath. Not inverted; the world had never seemed more right, more rational. He loved this boy, this Archie Kennedy, loved every inch of this strange fae creature, and therefore nothing they did together could be wrong. Not even this.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, thoughts hammered like his racing heart. Sin and sodomy, the Articles and Leviticus, de Sade's battering hedonists, and the _Symposium_, and Simpson's Inquisition. It didn't matter. He could hear them, echoing, pounding at a closed door and he was safe inside, here, with Archie. With heated exhalation sending lighting down his spine, lips pulling delirium into his belly, and every part of him tensing, tightening, filling with need, while his lover trembled under him. Trembled?

Suddenly uncertain, he forced himself to lean back, to part. His face was wet with their tears, and Archie sobbed as Horatio drew away. For several long eternities, all that he could hear was his friend's labored breathing, feeling Kennedy shove and squirm a distance between them. His unruly body hardened, kicked, implored him to hold tight, not to let go, but he ignored it, scared now, of the silence, of the cries. If only he could see his friend's face, could know what was wanted, whether he had done too much, hurt Kennedy, perhaps, in the thoughtlessness of his sudden passion.

"Archie?"

He was clipped by a flailing fist, hard, on the cheek. The blow was solid enough to slam his head against a nearby cask, but worse was the unmistakable disgust in the stream of hoarse accusations that followed from his dearest friend.

"You filthy, buggering, sodomite! How could you? Get away from me, don't touch me! Don't ever touch me again, you lying pig! You coward! Luring me down here... I thought you were my friend. I thought you were my friend and the whole time..."

Horatio scrambled back, hearing the thumps of flesh on wood as the boy continued to lash out wildly. His own desperate apologies were spilling out, a babbling stream of self-loathing that Archie didn't even seem to hear.

"How could you think that I...? You fucking bastard, you'd better not come near me again. You make me sick!"

As he clawed his way up out of the hold, he could hear his friend repeating, over and over again, sobbing now:

"I never want to see you again. I hate you. You make me sick. I hate you!"

Horatio barely made it to the bilges before he vomited violently and slumped down to cry. He was what Simpson said, a sodomite, a fancier of other boys, lusting for his poor innocent friend. An abomination in the eyes of God, and the Navy. In Archie's eyes.

How had he deceived himself so? To mistake Archie's gentle hands, his embrace, his smile, for something so much darker than it was? Was he so blinded by his own perversion that he saw it everywhere? What had he been thinking, and how could Kennedy ever forgive him? He couldn't be forgiven, he didn't deserve to be.

Somehow he found himself on deck, retching again into the ocean. No one paid him any mind; it was a common enough sight. But it wasn't the sea making him ill now, and Horatio knew this misery could never fade away or end.

"So Horny, Kennedy didn't give you quite the reception you wanted, eh?"

Having Simpson at his elbow should have startled him, but Horatio was too numb to care. Some distant part of his mind registered that Jack knew about their meeting in the hold, but the significance of it was beyond his grasp. He didn't know why Jack was addressing him at all, just as he had never understood why he and Kennedy had been the targets of his most persistent attention. He only wanted it all to end.

"I don't know what you are talking about, Mr. Simpson," he responded, dully.

"I told you to stay away from him, to keep your hands off of him. You seem to have a hard time understanding which of us is the senior officer here. What will it take, I wonder, to make the matter clear." Simpson's hands on the railing tightened to white knuckles.

"There is nothing you can do to me, Mr. Simpson, that I would not welcome." And Horatio realized it was true. A beating, even death, seemed less painful than standing here, knowing the truth about the evil within himself. Knowing Archie hated him for it.

"Nothing, Hornblower?" Jack seemed to take this as a challenge. He could feel those piercing cold eyes boring into him intently, and finally turned, just as a whimsical little smile twisted the man's lips. "Perhaps not, but Kennedy..."

The blow was well chosen. "Leave him alone! Haven't you done enough?"

Simpson leaned in on him them, fox-features only inches from his own."Maybe you should have thought about that, Snotty, before you disobeyed me." The older mid left him just as abruptly as Jack had arrived, Horatio still sputtering, incoherent with panic. Even now, even with Archie lost to him forever, he had failed to protect his friend. It would be best for everyone if he just cast himself into the water right then.

He did not, though. Too much a coward for that, or having at least that much honor? He couldn't say which. But he was still there on deck when Archie came up for their watch, moving like an automata almost wound down. Simpson met the mid at the aft hatch, grabbed the boy round the neck and whispered something, leered.

Horatio wanted to intervene, but he had given up that right, if he ever had it. And he feared to make the whole situation even worse, to provoke Simpson into some immediate retribution at his friend's expense. So he waited while Simpson poured more of his poison into Archie's ear, tried to watch the sea, the shore, anything. But behind his eyes, shadows swam, the sensation of Archie's lips, the sound of his friend's cry, the taste of tears.

He never noticed when Simpson left below, but his feet took him, eventually, without his knowing, across the deck toward Kennedy. His former friend turned and almost fled. Seeing that familiar figure limp away, breeches blotched with blood, straight broad shoulders now hunched and small, Horatio did not try to follow.

He kept his distance from Kennedy the whole of the dogwatch but made no effort to hide the skinned cheek Archie had given him, or to avoid the eyes of the lieutenants. He wanted to be punished, to be flogged, to have this evil whipped out of him. But the officers had lost their taste for discipline, it seemed, and no one said anything.

There was a late run of messages passing back and forth from the docks, and Horatio, on signal duty, was kept busy at least. A convoy was coming in the next day, and with it the opportunity to press sailors, to fill _Justinian_'s still too-thin ranks. Eccleston, coming on watch, complimented him on the speed with which Horatio composed and translated the communications. It was Archie, of course, who had helped him learn the code, and the praise felt more like a rebuke.

Going late below to the berth, he was not surprised to see that Kennedy's hammock hung in a new place, far from their accustomed spot. He hung his own just as always, and fell into it.

It was a terrible night. He could not sleep, his mind spinning around and around the terrible words Kennedy had cast at him, the way Simpson had sneered, the feeling of that small, shaking body in his arms, the fist lashing out at his face. Archie's warm breath in his mouth seemed a tormenting illusion, as the winter cold crept down into the gundeck, into the empty space around him, and numbed his extremities, turn nose and toes and fingertips to ice.

He could find no way out. Horatio had no faith that he could conquer his attraction to Kennedy. Archie had tried to warn him, tried to tell him. But he was so selfish he could not keep away even to spare his friend more pain. How then could he bear to lay here, night after night, to sit near him, day after day, tormented by Simpson, watching Simpson abuse his friend, abuse all of them, and do nothing? He would rather be dead, and the only regret he would have is leaving Archie behind, alone, to face Jack without him. But perhaps even that would be for the best.

It was morning, somehow it was morning, though it seemed impossible that the sun could still shine, even weakly. He didn't know how he had come to be standing there, staring out again at the sea, trying to find the strength to join it. Clayton was next to him now, talking to him, asking him, asking him something. "Death." He blurted out, unable to stop himself from unburdening his heart to now his only friend. "I was thinking on death."

"Whose?"

"Mine."

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